very interesting dream. real world outcomes aren’t exactly the usual, either. that’s a good thing.
i dreamt that a dear friend who has been dead and gone for many years came to visit me. we sat on the patio and talked of old times at first. in the quiet of a pause, he looked at me and asked, “is it really so terrible?” i pretended not to know what he meant, but that just made him laugh. always did. he reached across and took my chin, “you’re not getting away with that… not with me, missy. come on, answer me.”
i said, “yes, and no. it’s hard to explain. mostly i’m just angry for how it’s never enough.” he nodded, “has it ever been?” he had me there, the jerk. but he anticipated my tears and handed me a kleenex. i choked out, “i miss having you around. you always understood. and you didn’t mind when i wasn’t perfect.”
he winked at me, “damn good thing, eh?” but i wasn’t really listening and missed it. only realized it when he suddenly was out of his chair and squatting beside mine, repeating it softly until he knew i heard it and had to laugh. he took the kleenex from my hand and carefully dried my tears and then leaned in and hugged me so tight, whispering against my shoulder, “i miss you too, you know.”
i nodded silently. he just hugged me until the trembling stopped. he was always so good at that. sometimes he could still feel them even when i couldn’t. i miss that kind of care toward caring. he moved back to his chair and settled in, then quipped bluntly, “so what about all this silliness with boats and hopes and shit?” i stumbled around a bit trying to come up with a reply that he wouldn’t laugh at, “i’m tired of being alone.” i finally settled for the simplest answer. anything else he’d just pick apart.
“ah, so you’re alone then, are ya?” he said it smoothly, but i could still hear the undertone. i snapped, “why yes, i am, why don’t you come look under my bed. oh, no, wait, don’t have one of those yet.” he laughed, “some things never change, do they?”
i blushed and chuckled a bit, “no, i reckon they don’t.” he murmured, “you telling me you’re so tired of being alone that you’ll put up with the kind of crap you’ve seen this last month and a half?” i glanced at him from the corner of my eye, “you haven’t been around watching, have you?”
“no,” he replied truthfully, “but you keep good records.” he gestured somewhat vaguely to the area and i realized i was dreaming. i laughed, “yeah, kind of sad, isn’t it?” he nodded, “actually, yes, but mostly because it all seems to be fireproof.” we both fell out laughing then, the layers of interpretation and what they meant were too funny not to do so.
he sobered first, “it would do you well to burn this ballast, dear. it certainly isn’t doing you any good,” he reached over and lightly touched my hand, “you don’t want to become granny lavender, do you?”
i jerked as if stung. talk about old memory.
the children’s home eventually built retirement condos in the back of the land. it was the first of many steps away from children and towards seniors. one of the first to move in was an old woman we always just called ‘granny lavender’; both because she was kind of the home’s surrogate grandma and because she both liked the color and raised the flowers all around her place.
most times, you could visit her and have cookies and milk. sometimes, she’d show you amazing and slightly scary things… like the time she had the black widow in the jar and when she went to show it to me, it jumped at my face and i completely forgot it was in a jar and screamed and bout fell over backward.
sometimes, i’d go see her and she’d be sitting in the middle of the floor with photobooks and newspaper clippings all around. a box of kleenex by her side and silently weeping. most of the kids would leave. i never did. i’d ask if i could come in, she’d say yes. i’d ask if she could tell me who those people in the photographs were. sometimes she would. sometimes she wouldn’t. when she did, inevitably, she’d be so happy to talk about them and remember that she would forget she was crying. that always made me feel better, because it meant i could help.
when she didn’t want to talk, i’d just kind of wriggle my way in close and lean against her until she put her arm around me. then we’d just sit and rock. sometimes until dusk.
i knew what he meant. “i’d like not to,” i said simply, “but if it turns out that way, then i reckon that’s the way it turns out.”
he sighed, “you don’t think you have any control over it, do you?” i looked at him levelly, “when does anyone ever have control over how others behave, what they choose, and what they remember?”
he nodded slowly and said nothing. i reached over and took his hand, “it’s not so bad. the only time it hurts is when i remember.” he looked over to me and softly asked, “wouldn’t it be harder to remember if you didn’t keep such wonderful archives?”
i asked him in return, “what would i have if i didn’t have them?” he was quiet a moment, then he said slowly, “peace.”
it knocked me awake. i sat in bed and thought about it for a while. then, i got up and came in here and shut down the mailbox and deleted the archive and decided to write this up so i wouldn’t forget the wisdom of a long gone friend.